


A Man Out of Time

by LeafOnTheWind



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: And That's Super Not Cool, And a Warm Hug, Aprons, Art School, Artist Steve Rogers, Bananas, Bruce Banner Cooks, But Especially Superheros, Captain America: Man Out of Time, Clint Barton Can Dance, College Student Peter Parker, Daily Bugle, Dancing, Did Steve Go Straight From Nazis To Aliens, Domestic, Domestic Avengers, Don't Ask Don't Tell, Edible Plants, Everyone Needs Therapy, First Dance, Flashbacks, Gay Rights, Gay Steve Rogers, Gen, Grounding techniques, Instagram, Internalized Homophobia, LGBTQ Character, Like, Man Out of Time, Minor Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Modern Era, Natasha Romanov Can Dance, New York City, Not Beta Read, Online Classes, Panic Attacks, Paparazzi, Photography, Plaaaaants, Plants, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Press and Tabloids, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Science, Secret Identity, Social Media, Star Trek References, Steve Rogers Can't Dance, Steve Rogers Needs Therapy, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Steve Rogers-centric, Subways, Swing Dancing, Tabloids, Therapy, Tony Stark can dance, Urban Farming, banana fic, but not what you think, dance club, foraging, he's working on it, i think so, lots of them actually, pan tony stark, peter parker is broke, warm milk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:54:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24243136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeafOnTheWind/pseuds/LeafOnTheWind
Summary: Steve knew he was a man out of time, but it’s a bit hard to understand what that means without living it.  Or: the unexpected things that trip Captain America up in the modern world.
Relationships: Bruce Banner & Steve Rogers, Clint Barton & Steve Rogers, Peter Parker & Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark
Comments: 15
Kudos: 156





	1. Bananas

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Mistake on the Part of Nature](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1488142) by [idiopathicsmile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idiopathicsmile/pseuds/idiopathicsmile). 



> This is going to be a mini-series of different things that Steve might not know based on his incredibly non-comprehensive list. If you have ideas you'd like to see, please leave them in the comments!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve eats a banana, and is very disappointed. Bruce and Steve make banana bread.

Steve sighed and turned to look at the clock, a yawn pulling at his face as he tried, and failed, to suppress it. It was nearing 1AM. Steve had always been an early bird, even back in the 30s before he became Captain America. It was also partially habit at this point, formed from his time in the military, but keeping up early morning runs gave him a sense of stability he desperately needed.

Unfortunately, his time on the front lines (and in the plane, going down so so fast) also gave him shellshock, not that anyone else could tell, thank goodness, and sometimes left him staring at his ceiling late at night, or waking up in a cold sweat. This was one of those nights, and it had already been an hour since he woke, and no progress had been made. With a grimace of resignation, he threw back the (too-soft, always too-soft) covers and made his way to the common area, intending to have a late snack and maybe some warm milk if they had any left (they always had milk).

He’s not expecting anyone else to be there, except maybe Stark with his ridiculous hours, but instead he finds Bruce on the couch, looking exhausted as always, halfheartedly watching some cooking show on the wall-mounted television. He’s clearly been there a while, having sunk nearly horizontal on the couch. The woman on the television appears to be making some sort of foreign dish, maybe Thai? Korean? He’s not sure, but she’s put an awful lot of what Steve thinks might be chili in there.

Steve still hasn’t quite gotten used to the food nowadays. He’s grateful (good Lord above is he grateful there are no more penny restaurants, no more food lines, even if the prices still trip him up) that there is so much of it, especially since moving into the tower, but there’s… just so much of it. He was used to Depression-era food, and strict rationing, your basic beans and liver and one chunk of salt pork to keep you going for a week or two thrown in a pot to make it stretch so you wouldn’t feel that clawing nothingness for even one more day—

And then his senses were enhanced.

The others rib him about it, but Steve really cannot take spice. The shawarma was okay, but he had to smother it in that white sauce (tzatziki, he later learned) for him to stomach it. Even certain mustards were a bit much, or when his teammates put too much garlic in a dish.

He tried Thai once, when they ordered in one night.

Once.

But Steve is awake, and Bruce is awake, and he’s still fascinated by all these new foods, even if he can’t eat half the stuff without tearing up or coughing, so he grabs a glass of milk and a banana from the top of the fruit basket (full of different fresh fruit, always always always) and goes over to join him. Bananas used to be a bit of a treat, but he remembers distinctly the last time he ate one—was it back before the ice? Really?

Bruce is dozing when he approaches, but blinks himself awake when he hears Steve coming. “Sorry, did I wake you?” Bruce pulls himself up, rubbing gently at his eyes and leaning for the remote.

“Here I thought that was my line,” Steve retorts warmly. “Some company okay?”

He shrugs and nods, gesturing to the seat next to him. “Bad night?”

“I’ve had worse.”

Bruce gives him a look, as if he knows there’s more Steve isn’t saying, but doesn’t comment. Steve likes that about Bruce. They may not interact very often outside of missions, Bruce only really visiting the Tower rather than living there, but he’s a swell listener when he is there.

He settles into the seat and peels the fruit, taking a hearty bite—and chokes, “what the heck?”

“What? What’s the matter?” Bruce looks over, concerned, at Steve and the banana and his expression.

“This—this isn’t a banana. What is this? It’s… weird,” Steve glares at the snack in his hand like it can answer for its crimes. The banana remains silent.

“No, that’s definitely a banana. May I?” Bruce holds out his hand and Steve passes it over. Bruce sniffs it suspiciously before breaking off a piece and popping it into his mouth with a frown. “Yeah, definitely a normal banana. Did it taste weird to you?” It wouldn’t be the first time Steve’s enhanced sense of taste picked up on early signs of spoilage.

“Yeah, it’s just… It’s like a banana, but not. It’s… hard to explain.”

Bruce’s frown turns contemplative, turning to look at the chef still making Sambal for their viewers, as comprehension dawns on him. “Ahh,” he murmurs, “this is a cavendish, you’re probably used to the old kind of banana.” Steve only looks at him, uncomprehendingly.

“You’re probably used to Gros Michel bananas. Those were almost wiped out in the ‘50s, you can’t really find those anymore.”

Steve’s face falls, and he brings his hands up to rub his face. Yes, this is a small thing—for heavens’ sake, he hadn’t had a banana from almost a year before the ice until now, they’re clearly not that important to him—but it’s just another thing that’s changed. He lets out a sigh, “Understood. Go ahead and keep that one, then; I’ll grab an apple or something. Unless those are different too?” He quirks an eyebrow, not expecting an answer until Bruce opens his mouth hesitantly. “You know what, nevermind. I’ll just… I don’t know, I’ll figure something out.”

Steve stands to head back to the kitchen when he hears the television stop, and steps coming up behind him. Bruce trots up and suggests, “Why don’t we make banana bread? Might not be exactly the same—did you have banana bread then?—but I’m sure we can figure it out.” He smiles hesitantly, bracing for a rejection as Steve stares.

“Yeah—yeah, we had banana bread. I mean, I didn’t, not much, but… yeah, sure. Let’s make banana bread.”

The next day, the bananas had been replaced with banana candies. Confused, Steve tried one, and smiled.


	2. Don't Ask, Don't Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony does not want to go to another frickin' gala. Steve finds out about LGBT rights in the 21st century.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: mentions of 1940s "cures" for homosexuality in passing

“Pepper, angel of my life, goddess of all that I hold dear, I can NOT do another one. Nope, no way, absolutely not, I don’t care if it’s for starving puppies in Africa, I am SO close to finishing the Mark L, and I’m completely backed up with the upgrades to the ’Bites, and—Yes, I know. I know. Fine, so donate more! It’s not like—Yes, honey. Uuuuunderstood.” Tony Stark hangs up the phone. “There is no way in hell I am going to another frickin gala this week.” He already had two lined up, and the last time he went to an event related the military, Rhodey brought up ’89 in retaliation for bringing up ’87, which doesn’t even make sense, ’89 was way more embarrassing, get with the times, Rhodey. Seriously. The only reason he even keeps bringing up ’87 is because he gets so damn flustered about it, like Tony had never brought home a trans woman before. He scoffs. Like Tony hasn’t brought home every gender under the sun, and then some. There’s a reason ‘playboy’ is part of his whole schtick. Not so much anymore, with Pepper, but he had a good 30 years of debauchery or so before that.

Anyway, he is not going to that gala, but Pepper made it very clear that _someone_ had to. He quickly runs through his list of people who might be willing: Pepper and Rhodey are already going, Bruce is currently in Tibet, Romanoff and Barton are on a mission somewhere ‘classified’ (they’re in Pouso Alto, they really need to ask him to touch up their firewalls), Thor’s in Asgard not that he would even ask him for this… Who he really wants to send is Rogers, people in general eat that shit up, and even the most oblivious human in existence has to know Captain America cleans up _well_ , and God knows he needs to get out more if he doesn’t want the media even more up his ass than they already are. The number of times he’s had to have random photographers and wannabe paparazzi thrown out of the Tower is… high. It’s high. His only real concern is that, well, the host is Senator Wallagg, an openly gay representative.

And Rogers is an army man from the 1940s.

You know, the 1940s where they’d still use electroshock therapy, or they were lobotomized, or sent to a madhouse to be tortured in other ways. And Tony had no idea how much Rogers had even seen how different it was in the present day, at least in New York.

Well, no time but the present to find out. “Hey J, where’s Rogers?”

\--

Steve is sucking on a yellow candy (that actually tastes right) in the gym, waiting for Sam to catch his breath between bouts, when Stark bursts in with a “Rogers! Man with the plan! Just the guy I wanted to see!” He is immediately suspicious. The two of them have never quite gotten along, though they work together well enough. They are just not compatible people, and they know it, so why on earth is Stark seeking him out?

“So, gay people, LGBTQ rights, thoughts?”

Steve freezes, his heart racing. He glances at Sam, who looks just as confused. What does Stark know? Is this a threat? He’s seen what happens to people, friends of his, that he does not want to remember. Act casual, act normal, perfectly normal.

“Uh, no thoughts? Why?” He laughs nervously. He was never a good actor, as Brandt would be eager to tell anyone who would listen when he was alive.

“Perfect! Then you wouldn’t mind going to Senator Wallagg’s gala tomorrow? I would, cross my heart, oh if only, but I’m a busy man, you know?” He sends Steve a careless grin. Steve rolls his eyes before he processes what is being said.

“Wait, what?” See, this is why Steve doesn’t like Stark. He makes so many jumps in logic and this happens _all the time_. He hates feeling lesser than, and Stark makes a point of that. Ass. “What the hell does that have to do with a gala?” He crosses his arms. “And no, I won’t go to a random gala you’re telling me about the day before, you know darn well how much I hate those things. All fake smiles and platitudes.” This, at least, was familiar ground. For some reason, Stark just kept pushing these things on him and he was sick of it. Time to plant like a tree.

Stark heaves a dramatic sigh, looking up at one of JARVIS’ cameras like he’s in the Office (Steve watched the first season last week, and was not a fan). Sam frowns lightly, trying to remember where he knows that name from. “Senator Wallagg, Senator Wallagg… Oh, is he the one from Wisconsin? Big push to end Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell?” This helps Steve not at all.

“That’s the one,” Stark confirms, finger guns a-blazing. “Co-chair of the LGBT Caucus and everything.” He’s looking at Steve like he should know what that is, and actually starts to look frustrated at the corner of his eyes when he doesn’t respond.

“Huh,” says Sam, “This one you might actually want to go to then, if it’s about what I think it is.” He raises an eyebrow at Stark, who nods, satisfied.

“See? Even your buddy Sam agrees.”

Steve’s frown has been getting deeper as this conversation he doesn’t understand goes on, and sends a betrayed look Sam’s way.

“Look, if you can’t give me a straight answer—” he’s cut off by a snort of laughter from Stark, to his chagrin. Sam sends Stark a look, and he ever-so-graciously cedes the floor, waving his arm towards Sam.

“Senator Wallagg is one of the co-chairs on the Congressional LGBT Equality Caucus, and is presumably holding a gala tomorrow to, what, raise money for…?”

“It’s to raise money to fight against the ban on trans service members,” Stark admits.

“Right,” he confirms, before turning back to Steve. “Which I’d assumed you’d be all for.”

Steve is… very confused right now. “You can’t just make up… What does that even mean? What are you talking about? It’s like you’re having a completely different conversation,” he exclaims as a crease appears on Sam’s brow.

“Okay, what are you confused on? Now that you mention it, there’s probably terminology differences. _Definitely_ terminology differences.” Sam explains what trans means, and LGBT, and Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, and Steve… Steve sits down on the mat, almost in shock, thoughts whirling in his head.

Things have changed… so much. 

“So… so men can… what, be more openly,” he coughs, “temperamental? Even in the army?”

“If that’s how you want to put it, sure.” Stark shrugs. “I mean, it’s definitely still a Thing, but hey, progress!” He pauses a moment. “Ooh, relevant, gay marriage is also legal now! Just so you know. In, like, seventeen states or something. Decriminalized everywhere at least. Have you seen RENT yet? Oh, you’ll absolutely hate it. You know, I really hoped you’d’ve been more on social justice, wasn’t that your thing back in the Howling Commandos? Truth, Justice, the American way?”

“If you’re going to go off on how I need to go on the internet more—” 

“Nah—I mean, yes, you absolutely should, it’s a wonderful, beautiful cesspool—but not what I was gonna say.” A dramatic pause. “The gala? Going? Supporting fellow service guys and gals and nonbinary pals?” Steve still hesitates, and Tony drops pretense.

“Look Cap, I need to know if you’ll be cool with LGBTQ people, and you need to get out more. Not only for this gala. I need to know if I can trust you with certain things, with certain people in my life.”

“Tony, what—”

“I’m gay,” Steve blurts out, mortified. His voice drops lower, “Really? Men can… can be with men like that? Openly? They can get married now?” He’s almost desperate to hear the answer, and Tony obliges.

“Yeah, Steve. You can.”

A long pause.

“Yeah, I’ll go to the gala.”

“Perfect! Love to hear it. I’ll send up a suit for tomorrow night. Just so you know, now that I know, you are _absolutely_ going to be giving a speech tomorrow, so be ready for that. You don’t have to write it in advance or anything, your scripted speeches are terrible, just do what you always do and inspire people.” This statement is accompanied by jazz hands as he leaves the room.

After the door shuts, Tony takes a breath. Cool. “J? Make sure he’s alright after that. He’s with Sam, so it should be fine, but… yeah. Hey, on the plus side, I’m finally getting him out of the Tower for something other than a frickin run! An actual official event, thank God. Ooh, call up Pepp, I want to give her the good news.”

\--

After confirming it was alright with Steve to share, an awful lot of money changed hands that night. Sam and Natasha split the pot.


	3. Online Classes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve is sketching. Clint sees it and offers a suggestion.

It had been a few days since the gala, which was, as Steve expected, ridiculously ostentatious. He did not, in fact, end up making a speech, given he had only been told it was even vaguely acceptable to be—he struggled, even in his thoughts— _temperamental_ the day before. It was one thing to be vulnerable to his team, it was an entirely different one to show weakness—not a weakness, _who he is_ —to the public. Captain America is a symbol, and he knows he could do good by coming out, but he just was not ready. Tony ribbed him a little, but didn’t bring it up again.

He definitely will, just… he needs time.

It was also swell to see and _understand_ what those rainbow flags he was seeing meant. He’d seen them before, especially downtown, but they were everywhere now that he knew to look. Just another thing he’d missed. And if he felt his eyes watering every so often during his runs, or if he made a point to stop at coffee shops with that flag in the window, nobody mentioned it.

He’s sketching one such coffee shop now. Steve had gone for his usual run and stopped by, chatted with the barista while pointedly ignoring the stares of strangers, and returned, not exhausted by any means but satisfied enough for the day. Well, he’ll probably visit the gym too later, sue him. He feels terrible about it, but it’s days like this one that make him long for the action he’s used to. He doesn’t want there to be people in trouble, but he does want to be out there making a difference. Not today, though.

It’s almost dinnertime now, and Steve is in the kitchen watching Bruce make some dish he learned during his time in South America (Chile?) (okay, Chile, chillis… dear lord please don’t make it spicy). Bruce sees Steve’s suppressed grimace and chuckles, which does not comfort him in the least, before separating out about half the stew and adding quite a few powdered spices to one of the halves. He quirks a brow at Steve, who smiles gratefully, before turning back, humming lightly.

Thus appeased, Steve returns his attention to his sketchbook. It was a gift from Stark, he thinks, given it just showed up in his room one day after mentioning he’d missed it to Sam. That seems to be his MO, leaving gifts and pointedly not mentioning them. It’s definitely different than he expected after reading that personality report, not that he’s complaining. It’s a really high-quality one, far better paper than he’d been able to afford before the ice. It came with a large selection of paints and pens, but Steve found he still preferred using charcoal.

The coffee shop and its barista, delicately drawn, stares up at him, and while not fully satisfied (who ever is?), Steve turns the page. This is for relaxation, after all, it is not meant to be a stressor, these don’t need to be perfect, he reminds himself. He rolls his shoulders, stretching a habit though not strictly necessary with the serum, and starts again, this time with what he sees in front of him. Steve is sure Bruce knows what he’s doing, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

Steve finishes his drawing of Bruce, looking alarmingly domestic in his frilly green Hulk apron, holding a wooden spoon and looking about as far from the Hulk as Steve ever sees him (though who knows, maybe the Hulk is really into crochet or something) (he is not) about ten minutes before the food is meant to be done. He decides not to start a new one, as the team is sure to show up soon. JARVIS usually lets people know when food is ready, and they (not including Steve) (definitely including Steve) descend on it like they’ve been starving. That is (almost) never true.

Right on time, he hears a light thunk from above. Most people wouldn’t be able to tell, but it’s become a familiar sign that a particular spy is lurking in the vents again. Steve steps to the side, both to get out of Barton’s way and to put away his sketchbook, when Barton lands lightly next to him and grabs it with a “Yoink!” and starts flipping through, playfully at first, until he slows to a stop and his eyes widen. Taken aback, he flips through again, more slowly this time, and looks up at Steve, who just holds out his hand exasperatedly.

“Dude, these are… really good. What the hell? You’ve been holding out on us!” Steve can see when he gets to that last sketch of Bruce as Barton’s eyes widen and flick up to the scientist, taking in the apron and snorting. “And here Nat said you’d never wear it. Shows what she knows!” he crows triumphantly.

“It, it’s a perfectly usable apron,” Bruce responds, before being cut off.

“No, but like actually, have you ever considered going profesh? Imagine the demand for Captain America Originals!” Steve can hear the capitalization.

He heaves a sigh. “No, Barton, it’s just a hobby. They’re definitely not good enough to sell, in any case.” He frowns, his dissatisfaction warring with his desire to move the conversation along and get to the food Bruce is spooning out. It smells heavenly.

“I mean, sure. But you clearly enjoy it. Why not take a class or something? Hell, you ever go to college? Can’t think of a single one that wouldn’t be thrilled to have the Cap,” he says with a grin. He’s starting to get distracted, too.

Steve’s frown deepens. He grew up an orphan in the Depression, for pete’s sake. He didn’t have time for college, he was too busy trying to put food (god that looks good) on the table. He tells Barton this.  
Barton quirks a brow. “I mean, not really a concern for you now, is it?” He gestures vaguely at the gigantic room, on an upper floor of a midtown highrise, owned by his teammate the billionaire. Steve has the presence to look abashed.

“Still… I don’t really think I can commit to something with that strict a schedule. I don’t want to be disrupting other peoples’ education,” or be hounded by people once they realize that the Steve Rogers in their class is The Steve Rogers, but he doesn’t say that. It’s weird enough seeing his face on those magazines in the mornings.

“I mean… there are still one-off classes you can take, probably. Or, hell, there’s online classes, take a few of those, if you like em, see if you can get credit.” He smiles with just a few too many teeth. “It’s the American dream, isn’t it?”

“Wait, what?” Steve stares at him, confused, hesitating. “…This is another of those things, isn’t it?”

Bruce is bringing the second pot over—Steve’s pot, with significantly less of that red powder—when he nods tiredly. Barton doesn’t spare him a glance, singing an off-tune, “The internet is really, really great.”

Steve purses his lips. Tony’s been hounding him to get on the internet more (at all) for a while, saying he “needs more publicity,” and “can’t isolate himself forever,” (watch him, dammit) but Steve is still hesitant and, he can acknowledge to himself, a bit obstinate for the sake of pushing back against Stark. But… taking a class or two couldn’t hurt. He frowns. Maybe then he can start to get freaking hands right. Strategically hiding them really gets old after a while.

“…I’ll think about it.”

\--

He retires to his room that night to see a list of websites (sites?) on his bed next to his sketchbook with a little miniature Clint with his bow and arrow at the bottom corner, shouting an encouraging phrase. Steve can’t help but snort.

It’s a terrible drawing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is wondering, Bruce was making Chilean carbonada soup, suuuper comforting and not that spicy, but still too spicy for our resident super soldier =)


	4. Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony, Clint, Natasha, and Steve walk into a dance club. Steve is pleasantly surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is not beta read. If anyone is interested in betaing, please let me know <3

Steve has no idea what came over him to agree to go out with Stark, Barton, and Romanov. No idea.

Okay, he has some idea. When they asked him to go along to a dance club, he thought it was something distinctly different. He knew that dancing would be different, and he’d asked JARVIS to give him some idea of what to expect. Steve may not be comfortable using his tablet yet, but at least it was easier than that telephone they gave him, especially when JARVIS was kind enough to bring the appropriate websites up for him. (A telephone! How in heaven’s name is that a telephone? He knew what a telephone was, and last he checked, it was solidly attached to the wall. Of course, a mobile telephone was far more convenient, and hardly the most extreme example of new technology he’s seen, but… how?) (Well, he was friends with Howard Stark Before, if there’s one thing a Stark can do, it’s the impossible.)

Anyway, he knows dancing would be different. In truth, he was uncomfortable with the concept even before they left. JARVIS brought up a video going through dancing by the decade, so the progression made sense at least, but… twerking? The only women he’d really interacted with were Romanov and Hill, and he… could not imagine either one doing that. Well, outside of a mission.

By the time they pulled up, he’s regretting his decision to join them, and tries to stay behind to… guard the car from stray cats, or something.

Yeah, they don’t believe him either.

He sighs in resignation and climbs out and sees as Barton and Romanov share a wordless conversation, eyes flicking this way and that, probably about who’s going to be pulling him bodily out of the car in a few moments, before they see his acceptance. Tony is already up at the building, pressing a buzzer.

Steve is honestly a bit confused. This doesn’t look like any of the dance clubs he saw representing this decade. His confusion must show on his face (he’s never been good at acting, Senator Brandt could tell you that, though perhaps Phillips would have been more likely to) and Tony suppresses a giggle.

“Don’t worry, you’ll like this. Would I lie?” he bats his eyelashes. Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Steve doesn’t dignify that with a response, just an exasperated grimace as he ~~storms~~ strides past through the now-open door.

Unfortunately, he still doesn’t know where he’s going, so ends up sheepishly glancing back. All three are clearly amused, but push him into the elevator.

As it goes up, he starts to hear music (it’s all so loud nowadays), but it’s nothing like he expected, kind of upbeat and jazzy, not so heavy on angry vocals or electronics. Steve definitely likes some modern music, Stark does _not_ understand his appreciation for ABBA, but not what is typically played in dance clubs. This song, at least, doesn’t seem to have vocals at all.

Actually, he thinks he recognizes it. That is… absolutely not something he expected.

He looks into the room and sees, not the dark clubs or flashing lights of bars JARVIS has lead him to expect, but a well-lit room, its wooden floors bouncing slightly with the weight of the dancers around him flying around each other.

This is _very_ familiar.

Stark turns back from where he’s paid the man at the front and gestures him over to give his hand to the man, who grabs it and swiftly stamps light blue ink onto the back.

“To let you back in if you need to head out for whatever reason.”

Steve opens his mouth in wordless understanding and nods. He’s still taking it all in—the music is quite loud, now that they’re in the room, but not terribly so—when Romanov takes his elbow and guides him to one of the benches lining the side, where she begins removing her heels, only to replace them with what appear to be tennis shoes.

He didn’t know she even owned tennis shoes, but looking around at all the dancers (and their feet are going awfully high, aren’t they?) he sees sneakers and tennis shoes abound, with a few small exceptions. There’s an old man in the corner wearing a zoot suit and black dress shoes so shiny Steve would expect to see his face in them, and a woman in a _very_ fetching dress, he thinks from the fifties, with kitten heels and victory rolls in her hair, in perfect condition despite the whirlwind around her.

The energy in the room is infectious, and Steve is starkly reminded of places very much like this back before the war. Bucky, walking across the room with a dame on each arm, filling up his nonexistent dance card and handing some unlucky lady over to Steve.

It never lasted. Steve spares himself a pitying smile. He never managed to dance even once.

Peggy would have changed that, but… well. That was then.

Stark notices his melancholy and raises an eyebrow, handing him a pair of shoes in—he checks—his size. Of course they are. Steve musters up a slightly more genuine smile and murmurs thanks as he swaps his own boots out for the canvas shoes, tucking them away with the others’ as the song ends.

The next song barely starts before Romanov and Barton are out there on the dance floor, starting off slowly, but they are clearly experienced. It isn’t long before they’re somehow doing aerials in the ridiculously crowded floor, swishing by other couples by inches and making it look effortless. A few people on the sidelines, some changing, some visibly sweating and chugging water, start whooping and cheering them on. Steve settles into the bench and watches them go through one, two, three songs until he loses track of where they are and how many partners they’ve had.

Even just sitting there, Steve is starting to heat up with the warmth of so many people, and is very much enjoying himself, even as a wallflower. There may not be a Bucky here to facilitate a partner, but he’d never _really_ wanted it anyway; sure, it seemed fun, but the ladies never seemed to _want_ to dance with scrawny, asthmatic Steve when there was dashing, suave Bucky right there.

Just as this thought passes his mind, a woman in leggings and a tank top, reaches across him to the table for a water bottle, making intentional eye contact and smiling.

“Hey, I need a bit of a break, but would you like to dance the next one?”

…What?

She stands there expectantly, her smiling slowly fading at the unabashed surprise on Steve’s. “Or not, that’s fine too. Have fun!” she says finally, shrugging a little and going on to ask a fella across the floor.

He’s still a bit bewildered when he feels the cushion sag next to him. Romanov is actually sweating a little. She looks at him and raises an eyebrow, glancing over at the woman who is, at this point, doing a spin and laughing. They look like they’re having fun. Romanov glances more emphatically, clearly asking why he didn’t accept her invitation. At least, he thinks so; she’s hard to read normally, though puts on a façade as easily as her lipstick, still immaculate of course. He shrugs.

In truth, he’s conflicted.

In the past—Before—he was always on the sidelines, like he is now, but back then he hadn’t been asked to dance, not once. It just wasn’t done. Sure, he’d tried to ask out a dame or two, especially if Bucky had gone through the trouble of trying to “wingman” for him.

They’d, to the woman, turned away.

Sure, he knows it’s different now, that dames and fellas look at him now, and in a good way at that, but now he’s never sure if it’s because they want something from him. He’d gone straight from poor kid outta Brooklyn to Captain America to Captain America, _legend_ and it’s hard sometimes.

Not that he’d ever give it up, of course. He enjoys helping and, yes, fighting far too much.

Romanov cuts through his thoughts easily. “Dance with me,” she says, standing and holding out her hand. Steve looks at it as if he’s not sure if it’s poison or a blessing. At least with her, he knew what he was getting into (ha, nobody ever does, she’s a Black Widow after all).

Then comes the other issue, and he swallows heavily. “I don’t know how to dance.”

He can see he’s taken her a bit aback, but she recovers admirably. “ _Dance with me._ I can back-lead, don’t worry.” She smiles, and he knows it’s calculated to the degree to put him at ease, and it does. He may not know what’s going on in her mind, but there’s really no harm in accepting outside of possible embarrassment if Clint gets pictures, or possibly Romanov taking vengeance after he inevitably steps on her toes.

He takes a moment to ground himself, gripping the bench tightly, before pushing up and taking her hand. Her smile deepens as she positions his hands correctly. He is sure to keep them precisely where she puts them, and takes a deep breath. She’s chosen an easy one, thankfully. She is infinitely patient, leading him through the basic step that feels vaguely familiar.

He remembers a night after going out, when they got back to their tiny studio after Bucky had been drafted. Bucky had done (or tried to, at least) what Natasha is doing right now and tried to teach him to dance. He had to be ready for next time, the dames'll be all over him, Steve'll see. After a bit Bucky gave it up as a lost cause, Steve stumbling along like a newborn colt, or perhaps just because of how much he’d drank that night, and they collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Steve had woken the next day on their ratty couch, a blanket atop him. Buck had always been considerate like that.

Steve stumbles through the steps as Romanov glides across the floor, delicately avoiding his shoes and neatly explaining what she's doing and what he's _meant_ to be doing. It's much easier this time around, the serum granting him greater coordination if nothing else, and with her whispered instructions he soon begins to guide her. She is patient with him, and dances more than one song, turning down several other offers to do so. Steve finds himself laughing as an upbeat ditty comes on, another one he recognizes!

Natasha grins at him, lets go of his hand, and pushes him back and around, nearly bowling over that woman from earlier. He glances back at Natasha, who has already taken another partner, but somehow finds it in her to told her head just so. He takes a breath and turns back.

Hesitantly he asks, "May I have this dance?" And holds out his hand. She takes it without any hesitation on her part and replies with a smile.

\--

He gets better as the night goes on, naturally, and watches as the people from early on start to leave, only to be replaced by yet more dancers. Steve is taking a breather when Tony throws himself down next to him, heaving breaths after a very fast one—a jam, he thinks. There was a circle, at least, and Tony had spent at least half of it in the middle.

"Having fun, Cap?" Tony quirks an eyebrow. He sounds nonchalant, but Steve can tell he's genuinely asking. Tony was the one who ultimately convinced him to come, so he supposes that makes sense. After the gala, he did seem to be making an effort to be more congenial. They might not be best friends, but he likes to think they are friends, at least.

"Yes," he realizes, "Yeah, I really am." A pause, and Tony's shoulders relax into the wall behind them, and Steve continues with a soft smile playing at his lips. "This really wasn’t what I expected when you said we were going dancing, you know."

"Ah, you know me, gotta keep the paps guessing, y'know?" Tony deflects. "Besides, Nat thought you might want something a little closer to home."

Steve laughs. "Gee, I'll have to thank her then." Tony looks almost smug out of the corner of his eyes. Natasha was not the one who suggested this, he can tell.

And it appears that’s not all. Tony leans forward onto his knees as he looks out into the floor consideringly, his breath slowing and heartbeat settling a little. The next one comes on, and Tony, casual as ever (he has sprezzatura down to an art form, seriously) asks, “Care to dance this next one?”

Steve is taken aback, and looks around for someone to have heard. Nobody looks their way as Steve’s mind catches up with him, staring incredulously and not without a hint of fear at his friend.

“Or not, not a big deal, I understand if you don’t want to. Just know it’s an option. Didn’t exactly forget what you said. Thought you might want to learn the follow steps too, you know, just in case,” he finishes with a wink. The silence is filled with the song’s refrain and, yeah, Steve _really_ wants to dance, and he’s been having fun all evening, so yeah, why not.

Tony is already standing to find a different partner when Steve replies. “Sure. Sure, let’s dance.” A smirk appears on Tony’s face, and he grabs his hand, pulling him off the bench and into a twirl, ending with Steve in the position of a follower. How this is possible with their height difference, he’s not sure, but he takes up the form he remembers Natasha using so carefully at the beginning.

“I mean, if you want to lead, that’s fine too, but everyone should be able to follow, I say. Dancing, I mean, because I am _not_ a follower, as you should damn well know by now. Not a team player, remember?” Thankfully, there’s no spite in that that Steve can hear. Colonel Rhodes would be a better judge, of course. He wonders if that’s how Tony learned to follow, as he can’t imagine Howard liking that a bit from what little Tony’s mentioned of his childhood.

Howard had clearly changed from the man Steve knew.

Time changes an awful lot, he thinks, melancholy and not.

As Tony slowly leads him into a swing-out, walking him through the steps, Steve thinks change might not be a bad thing, sometimes.

\--

Steve dances with partners of all types after that, with a willowy woman who loves getting dipped, a shorter man missing an arm, an elderly woman in full 1940s dress and makeup (god, she looks so much like Peggy), Natasha and Clint and Tony and Steve doesn’t ever want to stop.

Of course, they do leave when the place closes.

 _Frim Fram_.

He definitely wants to do this again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are wondering, Frim Fram is an actual swing dance club that is my absolute favorite place for swing dancing in NYC. Give it a go if you're in the area when there isn't a pandemic.
> 
> Also, the first song Steve hears is Duke Ellington's Things Ain't What They Used To Be. <3
> 
> I may or may not be linking a playlist for this specific chapter. Can you tell I love swing dance yet?


	5. Paparazzi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve sees his picture in a tabloid, and is very off-put by the article.

Steve is heading back from his usual morning run, returning just after the sun rises, the news stall outside the Tower pulling up their awning and setting up for the day. He decides to stop and say hello, get some coffee, as he really wants to start engaging more with the people around him. Sure, he’s a celebrity now, but he doesn’t really feel like it, he never has. Even when he was a dancing monkey on stage, it was less celebrity and more like he was acting a part, not _him_ , and after he started actually making a difference in the war, he was surrounded by people who knew him far too well to treat him any differently.

Steve takes a moment to breathe. Remembering Before is always difficult for him.

He’s paying the man when he catches a glimpse of one of the magazines on the rack. It’s a picture of him at one of his regular coffee stops mixed among images of several other people, his eyebrows creased and eyes closed, drinking the pink, fruity drink like his life depends on it. He remembers the moment that must have been taken, Steve admittedly flirting a little bit with the barista. The caption: _Captain America Putting On Some Pounds?._ He frowns and adds that to his purchase.

He sips his coffee—it’s kind of terrible, he’s getting spoiled by the stuff Tony keeps in stock—and looks through the magazine. It’s just as terrible as he expected, maybe more; conjecture about his own drinking, his affiliation with Tony Stark and _wow_ , they do not pull any punches. Steve knows about Tony’s sordid past, or at least the highlights, but it’s been decades and they’re still acting like he’s the damn devil in Prada. (He saw that film just the other day, and he still can’t decide whether he’s more cross at the main character for disrespecting someone clearly the top of her field, or the main character’s friends for trying to mess with her career. One thing he is sure of: that other secretary deserved to go to that show.)

Steve is just about back in the Tower when an unfamiliar super drops—swings?—down next to him. He thinks it must be Spider-Man, based on the descriptions he’s heard and the gigantic spider on his front, but you can never be sure.

“Hey! Mr. Captain America sir? Spider-Man!” Well, that answers that question. Spider-Man offers his hand, and Steve gapes a little, startled at the enthusiasm in that voice, before smiling and tucking the paper under his arm to take his hand, giving it one firm shake.

“Always good to meet another hero.” Spider-Man seems giddy at that, hopping a little on his feet, clearly trying to control himself and almost succeeding. He remembers hearing about Spider-Man, though he usually doesn’t operate in this area, focusing more on Queens than Midtown. “What brings you around the Tower?”

“Oh! Right, uh, Mr. Stark told me I could drop by his lab today after cla-uh, cleaning up the streets. One of my shooters got pretty banged up last week, so… yeah. Um. I wanted to see if I could upgrade it a bit, I’m betting Mr. Stark’s lab is a lot better equipped than my, uh, usual place. Yeah.” He trails off, fidgeting nervously. “Is that alright? I guess I should’ve called ahead or something, but he did say I could drop by whenever.”

Steve sends him a reassuring smile. “I mean, it’s his Tower, we’re just living in it. If Tony says you’re welcome, you’re welcome, right JARVIS?” He looks up at one of the cameras across the hall. It’s a bit of a habit, at this point, a holdover from when he thought JARVIS was a person behind a desk.

A disembodied voice replies, “Of course, Captain. Will you be visiting Sir’s lab as well?”

“Sure, why not,” he answers as they continue to the lab. He’s been meaning to familiarize himself more with other local supers, might as well start with Spider-Man. He opens his mouth to ask a question when Spider-Man gets distracted by the paper under his arm and nabs it. “Hey, what—”

“This is a terrible picture!” Steve blinks. It’s true, but that’s really not the worst bit in that article. “Plus, who even thinks this headline is a good jab? If they wanted to be inflammatory, why didn’t they go for the ‘Captain America is Gay’ angle, or the ‘Captain America is a Wealthy Asshole’ angle, or even the ‘Captain America: Political Sellout’ angle? I mean, no idea if you are, though I’m guessing you’re not an asshole at least as you haven’t told me to shut up yet, _oh my god stop talking_ , but this trash is just offensive. God, I don’t know whether the photography or the shit take is worse.” Spider-Man pauses and seems to remember who he’s speaking to. “Ah, I mean of course that they’re writing this at all is abominable, sir! Haha… ha.” He shrinks into himself, suddenly self-conscious.

“Son, it’s not the first time I’ve had a photograph taken of me that I didn’t want.” Steve remembers his months as a dancing monkey with a grimace. “Though it is the first I’ve seen in this format.” Spider-Man continues flipping through the pages.

“Actually, now that you mention it, I’ve pretty much _only_ seen you in tabloids or in a group thing with the rest of the Avengers. I’d really say start getting some more official media, people will always need a story for someone as famous as _Captain America_ , and it’s better to head it off with your own story or they’ll make stuff up. Like you having a _weight problem_ , can you even gain weight? Not that it’s an issue either way, it’s just like, I have to eat a _ton_ to even stay healthy, can’t image a super soldier would be much different there.”

Spider-Man rolls his eyes as they exit the elevator. Steve can’t see the eyeroll, but he can feel it. “You don’t have, like, an Instagram or anything, I know that. Hey, I know a photographer, technically works with the Daily Bugle but I trust him, he does pretty much all the paparazzi work for me, and I pay him to _not_ release some stuff, but his work is way better than… this.” He makes a face, holding the paper with two fingers far from his face.

Tony interjects before Steve can speak, which looks to be a running trend today. “Kid, let him breathe, would you? I’ve been on his case for _months_ about this, he’s stubborn as a bull, I’ll tell you that much.” Steve frowns. He’s not that stubborn, is he?

“Wait, is that why you keep pushing me to attend those parties?”

Tony looks at him over his sunglasses with a raised eyebrow. “Uh, yeah, thought you knew that by now, Cap. That, and it’s ball season, I wasn’t joking there. Do you have any _idea_ how boring they get after weeks and weeks of that shit? Don’t answer that, doesn’t matter.” He turns his attention to Spider-Man. “Although… you’re talking about that Parker kid, right? Why the hell do you trust someone who sells your photos to the _Daily Bugle_ of all places? Jameson _hates_ you.”

“Uh, I might possibly get a cut? Look, the _Bugle_ pays the best, and rent isn’t exactly cheap, okay? Not all of us live in, uh, here.” He trails off, coughing awkwardly. Tony levels a deadpan stare at Spider-Man.

“Kid, I _told you_ , you can come to me if you need anything.” He softens imperceptibly. “Everything alright still? The offer to pay for, you know, is always on the table.” Spider-Man tilts his head and Tony knows it’s still going to be a no. He sighs and moves on; why must his life be filled with people who _won’t accept help when they need it?_

“Look, anyway, Cap, Spidey’s right about one thing: you _gotta_ start taking control of your image. Take it from someone who’s been in the spotlight since birth,” he bats his eyes dramatically before standing tall, serious once more. “It’s _always_ easier to take the initiative. It was absolute hell to get SI’s rep back up after Afghanistan, but we made it work because _we were first_. Go to official events, schmooze people, get people to photograph you doing things like rescuing kittens or something. I know it’s not fun, but if you don’t start taking control, others will. You have SI’s PR department, not at your disposal, but available to you if need be. _Use it._ ”

“Look, I… I’m just not comfortable giving other people authority like that again. I _hated_ being a spectacle, I just want to do my part to make the world safer.”

“If you’re that against it, then at _least_ get social media of some kind. Instagram, Twitter, hell, get a Youtube account and start vlogging, I don’t care. _Connect with people._ ” Tony is depressingly earnest.

“Fine. Fine, I barely know what those are, but I guess I’ll take a look if you really think I need to.”

The look of relief is a little much, but if it gets him off his back about the parties, Steve can go for social media. He was so bored at that gala, he truly does understand why Tony hates them so much.

“Thank goodness. Spidey, you’re a miracle worker.” He preens under the praise, straightening his posture proudly. “Actually, hm. What’re you here for, kid?”

“I mean, you said I could drop by anytime, and some of my equipment broke last week and I basically need to repair them but I figured your lab’d probably be, um, yeah. So, yeah.”

“Mmkay, doesn’t sound like a full-day thing. Why don’t you stick around for a little after and show Capsicle here how to use Instagram or Twitter or something? You’re Gen Z, you’re good at that stuff, yeah? Perfect.” He sweeps Spider-Man into the lab, talking over his very mild objections. “Y’hear that? Don’t go avoiding this, you agreed to it! JARVIS, he agreed, right?”

“According to a certain definition of ‘agreed,’ yes, Sir.”

“See?” As if he expects Steve to object. “Anywho, we’re doing Science,” Steve can hear the capitalization, “you can stick around if you swear not to touch anything, or you can meet up with Spidey here when he’s done.”

“I think I’ll hang around, actually.” This seems to actually surprise Tony, though he recovers admirably and shows him around, including the Couch That He Is Not To Move From where he takes vigil. It’s really very nice sitting here, watching the two heroes work around each other, not seamlessly, but easily. Spider-Man’s eagerness doesn’t seem to be limited to Steve, either; the number of times Tony tells him not to call him ‘Mr. Stark’ is frankly hilarious. It’s more sedentary than he usually cares for, but… it’s nice.

\--

When Science is done and the webshooters fixed, Steve is asleep on the couch. They don't wake him up.


	6. Social Media

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve is introduced to Instagram, but nobody believes him. He gets very into edible plants.

The first time Steve uses Instagram, he is a little befuddled. Spider-Man sets it up for him, so he doesn’t have to do anything but post his first picture and decide what sort of things he wants to see in his _feed_. His thumb hovers over the screen.

Tony had recommended a picture of him at the one gala he’d attended. Spider-Man told him an image of him in costume would be the best, but to take anything he said with a grain of salt given how poorly the press treated him. Pepper Potts told him to post whatever he wants as long as it isn’t profane or offensive, and to keep in mind his _personal brand_.

It sounds tiring.

He finally relents and submits the first image: one of his sketches. It’s of the entire Avengers crew, based on a few photographs JARVIS had kindly leant him for reference. They’re all lounging around the entertainment center, a bit beaten up and eating Chinese takeout from the containers. They’d just gotten back from fighting Loki again; thankfully he just seems to be acting out for attention at this point, weirdly enough. Steve doesn’t want to imagine how hard it is for Thor even now, fighting against his brother-not-brother; if he were actually doing some damage, they would have to put him down harder as well.

Regardless, it’s one of his favorites that he still has. He has no idea what happened to his sketchbooks from Before, and is too afraid to ask. They could’ve been destroyed, or taken apart and auctioned off, or lost somewhere. Steve doesn’t really want to know, at this point. Some of his best, and worst, memories are in those books. The dancing monkey, the train (although that leaves a sour taste in his mouth now), the Howlies, Bucky.

Bucky.

He shuts off his phone.

\--

When next Steve opens up his Instagram, he’s inundated with notifications, friend requests, hearts (likes?), comments. A lot of them are doubting that it’s really Captain America doing this. Steve frowns. He knows it’s a reasonable doubt, but he feels almost personally slighted by those, especially the ones who doubt it because of the art. He’s flattered by the compliments, of course, but why on earth do people think Captain America would be a terrible artist? It’s just rude.

So he snaps a quick picture of himself in the living area, right where the drawing was set. It’s kind of blurry, but Steve doesn’t much care. He posts it.

They still don’t seem to believe him, and he’s getting stressed out about this already. This was a bad idea.

\--

A week later, Steve has posted a few more images: a couple more sketches, another blurry shot of him dancing at Frim Fram that he asked Natasha to take when they went that week, a few of his house plants. The plants aren’t doing great, but they’re alive at least. He seems to have gained a small following of people who don’t believe he’s the real Captain America, but _are_ convinced that he’s a very good double, and are entertained enough that they don’t mind.

Some people have even started sending him recommendations, which he sometimes appreciates and sometimes ignores. Below an image of his (admittedly sad) pothos, some kind stranger has linked another page on what they call urban farming and he calls… he doesn’t know what he calls it, but it looks awfully close to what his Ma had wanted before she died.

He clicks the link.

It leads him down a rabbit hole into a topic he hadn’t really been interested in before. Urban farming, subsistence farming, apartment gardens, urban and suburban foraging. All things that would have been mighty useful back before even Before, back when he was living alone with his Ma or with Bucky later on. Not that they would’ve been able to afford even the supplies for a small plot of land to garden on, but… yeah. It looks like there’s a community garden nearby; he resolves to go when it gets to be spring again.

\--

He knows getting media attention was the point of his account, but people don’t believe him anyway. He mustered up all this courage to put himself out there, but this continued anonymity is almost comfortable, so he lets it continue, stops posting blurry selfies and focuses more on the plants, though he still posts sketches sometimes, though even those are beginning to lean more towards flowers and gardens.

Instead, he gets some more plants of his own. Not of his own volition, actually, they just show up one day in his room, flowers spread across his window, hanging from the ceiling and propped up on stands for more room. It feels like he won’t even need his windowshades come nighttime.

In his sad pothos, there’s a little rainbow flag and a note.

_To remind you that life, uh, finds a way._

What the hell does that mean? Who writes out an _uh_?

Steve heaves a sigh, but he can’t hide his pleasure, nor does he wish to. Sure, they’re vines and flowers, but he recognizes some of these from his descent into urban foraging blogs. There’s some milkweed blooming its little purple clusters over by the TV, orange day-lilies on a shelf chest-height sitting above the yellow buds of wintercress, a small pond with cattails poking up. They may not be tubers or wheat, nothing canned or frozen, but all of these new plants are edible in different ways.

“Jarvis?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Thank him for me, would ya?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean, Captain.” Steve doesn’t imagine the hint of amusement in his voice and knows his message will be passed along.

He snaps picture of his new menagerie.

_Having a little farm of common plants like these would have done an awful lot for people back in the ’30s. They look swell, too. Thank you @TonyStark for the additions to the plant family._

Upload complete.

\--

Tony looks at his phone and smirks before he notices a certain plant, and specifically the flag still clearly visible in the post. Oh dear.

“Hey J, didn’t Steve want to wait before coming out?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plants mentioned in this chapter are indeed edible, with the exception of the pothos. I gave him that because they are _very_ difficult to kill and easy to make look nice, but hey, he's a beginner.
> 
> I actually highly recommend y'all look into native edible plants in your area, it's fascinating. If you're in a city, urban gardens can also be a great way to connect with your neighbours and give you space to garden in places that typically, you can't. My place certainly doesn't have outdoor space on its own.
> 
> Also, specific shoutout to @blackforager on instagram, who got me into even looking at foraging as a Thing.


	7. Shellshock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve wakes up after a nightmare. Sam talks about therapy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: PTSD, inconsiderate language around that

Steve wakes gasping for breath, his eyes wild and unseeing in the darkness, his heart in his throat, choking him.

He grasps aimlessly for something, _anything_ to ground him, and knocks into something nearby and suddenly he’s soaked, cold water on his face and chest and he can feel the ice forming around him and he’s too cold _too cold_ and he can feel the wind blistering his cheeks as his plane goes down, down, _down_ , _God—_

\--

It’s three in the morning by the time he’s able to breathe again, but there is no way he’ll be getting back to sleep tonight. Not after… that.

His pajamas, long and warm, are damp and cling to his skin with sweat and the glass of water he’d spilled on himself in his panic. He grimaces. He’ll have to move his bedside table farther away so that won’t happen again.

As soon as he can move without trembling like a newborn fawn, he stands, taking care to avoid shards of glass scattered on the rug from his cup. He can clean it later, now is not the time.

His pajama shirt is peeled off in exchange for a dry tee, all soft cotton and blessed warmth. A pair of Hulk slippers enclose his feet in fluffy fur, so unlike the actual Hulk, comfortable all the same.

By the time he gets to the kitchen, he feels almost human. He still steadies himself on the counter before moving again.

He’s still bewildered every time he opens the refrigerator to see so many fresh fruits and vegetables, and _meats_. He doesn’t even really see people eating them, nor cooking very often, but it’s comforting to see all the same. In his room, he has a small cache of canned goods behind a ceiling tile. JARVIS knows about it, he’s sure, but has made no comment.

A rush of cold air bursts past his face as he opens the door, grabbing a milk as quickly as he can and shutting the door with perhaps more force than necessary. Fortunately, the common area is mostly super-soldier-proofed after the first few incidents. Not Hulk-proofed, of course, but so few places are. Bruce is usually calmest here, cooking. Low-risk.

He pours a decent amount into a saucepan, he’s not really measuring, setting it on the stove on low and staring into the swirling whiteness. Whiteness… he jerks away.

A breath. He’s steadied a little, but it’s been long enough that he’s experienced this type of thing that Steve recognizes when he’s in a fragile state. What does he need right now?

An open space. Warmth. Dry. Comfortable clothes, as far from his uniform as possible. Or maybe he needs his uniform, he doesn’t quite know. He needs to be still. He needs to _move_.

He grabs some cinnamon and nutmeg from the spice drawer and sprinkles it over the milk. Not just white anymore. Good.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there over the pot, staring at the spices swirling around, but it must be a while. The gigantic windows show the horizon just starting to lighten, stars still visible, and the milk has formed a skin on top. Steve whisks it back in, loathe to waste any part of it, when he hears a light padding of sock-clad feet approaching.

He’s not in the mood to deal with anyone right now. He’s the leader, he has to be strong, they can’t…it’s one thing to show his happiness or nostalgia. This is weakness. This is, this is shellshock, he can’t deny it to himself. But he knows what happens to people with shellshock, and it’s not pretty. He can’t be benched, he _won’t._ The Earth needs him, _them_ , together as a team.

He still takes down two mugs, one oversized sepia mug with the vitruvian man curled around the side and a small chip on the handle, his favorite, and Sam’s, a clean light blue with his Captain America shield patterned on the side. A small smile slips out at the thought, embarrassed though he is. Clearly, he wasn’t paying attention earlier, and the amount in the pot is plenty for the two mugs, plus some left over.

Sam looks at him for a long time before taking the warm drink gently, bringing it to his chest. “Rough night?”

“Eh, you know how it is sometimes,” Steve dithers. He probably does, remembering what he’d told him about Riley. Practically everyone back Before did. It was an unspoken fact of war. Everyone had it, _nobody_ talked about it.

He should be able to deal with this. Steve _knows_ he doesn’t have it near as bad as any of the other Howlies. While he was traipsing about the nation selling _bonds_ , they were out there dealing with the worst of humanity, with Nazis, with torturers, with Allied soldiers who took revenge too far. Just remembering what the Howlies were like when they found them that first time...

Steve shudders at what could so easily have been him, or Bucky. God, Bucky, captured once by HYDRA and so different even before sev- _seventy years_ of—

No. A deep breath. Breathe in the steam, take a sip, feel the warmth, follow it to your stomach. Focus on that. 

There will be time for self-flagellation when you’re alone, more stable.

When Sam replies, Steve jumps a little bit, not splashing, but it’s a close thing. He hyperfixates, sometimes, sometimes it helps, sometimes it doesn’t. He doesn’t know if it’s helping or not, right now.

“Yeah. I know.” Sam’s voice hitches, and Steve notices he’s not alone in his shaking hands, in thousand-yard stares into mugs that hold no answers. “It gets better, but sometimes it doesn’t feel like it, does it?” Steve hums in reply, neither agreement nor the opposite. “We all lose something,” Sam says as he stirs his milk, “when we go over there. When we come back without… without everyone. Some people lose their humanity, internalize the brutality. Others lose hope, or their sense of peace. It’s hard to go from warzone, from actively fighting the scum of the earth, to civilian life, even if it’s not all we do, as Avengers.” Where is Sam going with this? Sam makes eye contact. “Did it ever occur to you, Steve, that that’s not a personal failing?”

Steve brings his milk up, sipping it slowly to stall for time. But it is a personal failing. He’s the leader, if his actions are affecting the group, it’s not good enough to say he’s human, it’ll get people killed. Keep it small, keep it compressed, keep it from affecting others. But he knows what Sam wants to hear.

“Of course not, Sam. I know that.” Sam doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. “It’s just that… whether it’s personal or not, it doesn’t matter, does it? As long as I keep the team functioning, that’s what matters.”

He mulls this over before responding.

“Steve, if I said I needed to take some time to process things, aliens, DC, what would you say?”

“Do you?”

“Would you blame me, Steve?”

“...Of course not. You… I know you like being the Falcon, but I’m sure it’s a hard transition to make. Are… do you need a break?”

“No, Steve, because I took that time. When Riley,” he shudders to a halt. “When Riley died, I took time. I got therapy. I got some sleeping pills, for a while, so I could sleep through the night sometimes, when it got really bad.” 

Steve thinks he knows where this is going, and his heart begins to speed up a bit. “I don’t need _pills_ , Sam, I, no. I don’t need to, to be _sequestered_ or _drugged up_ or—I’m fine. I’m not—” Sam doesn’t say anything, which feels like a betrayal. “I’m _fine_ as I am.”

His voice is still calm, soothing almost, as he responds. “Steve, you’re not going to be sequestered. Things like that are only if you’re an immediate danger to yourself or others, and even if that were the case, it just means you need help. Do you think you’re a danger to yourself or others, Steve?”

“No,” he says, affronted.

“I know you’re not, Steve. I’m not gonna pressure you, but this is not the first time you’ve woken up in the middle of the night. I know the signs, because I’ve seen them in a hundred veterans, myself included. Clint included. I say this as a friend, Steve, not as a counselor, or as an officer, and I think you could use help.” Steve is already shaking his head in the negative, drinking his mug much more quickly and heading for the sink. Even under duress, he finds it hard to leave a messy home. “You’ve been to my group therapy in the past. If you think that’s something you’re more comfortable with than one-on-one, it’s always open for you. You don’t have to shoulder this on your own.”

The thought of Sam’s groups flits through him and he slows at the faucet, taking the time to drain the last dregs and wash the mug by hand. Soap, sponge, foam, wipe, rinse. The pot still has some rapidly-cooling milk, stagnant now. He stirs it up just to watch the spices move.

“This is another thing that’s changed, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, Steve, it is.”

\--

When Steve visits group therapy, as a participant this time, Sam is thrilled, even if it isn’t his group. It’s a step in the right direction. And if he looks into what happens to people who aren’t in their right mind, who might be violent before they get help, to prisoners of war who don’t adapt well, then that’s no business of Sam’s. 

Steve’s Riley isn’t dead yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a sensitive topic, and I want to do right by it, but I know I likely fall short here. There are a variety of ways that PTSD can express itself, and this is how I've chosen for Steve's. If there's something that stands out as egregiously wrong, please let me know and I will do my best to fix it.
> 
> Also, there is exactly 0% shame in getting help if you want or need it, whether it be for PTSD, anxiety, or just processing life. I am of the personal opinion that everyone should have a therapist as a matter of course.
> 
> A few resources for readers in the USA:  
> A veteran lifeline by the National Veteran's Foundation: 888.777.4443  
> Information on PTSD: https://www.ptsd.va.gov/  
> A collection of resources for information and finding treatment: https://www.everydayhealth.com/ptsd/guide/resources/  
> For finding a therapist in general: https://www.psychologytoday.com/
> 
> If you're able, consider donating to the National Veteran's Foundation (https://nvf.org/) or the Wounded Warriors Project (https://www.woundedwarriorproject.org/), or any number of other veteran's foundations.


	8. Science Fiction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Avengers relax after a battle with some classic Sci-Fi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha time isn't real. I swear this is getting finished before a year passes lmao

The Avengers stumble into their shared common space after a not particularly difficult but _very_ exhausting battle against Amora. It had been yet another scheme to gain Thor’s affections somehow—her plans never seemed to make sense to Steve. Even if she managed to catch him, it’d be fake, wouldn’t that be more painful for her?

Either way, she must have gotten some help this time around, as she ran them around like fools for quite a while before they managed to exhaust her spells and take her down. He’s sure she’ll be back at it in a few weeks. Seriously, Steve needs to figure out why the hell people keep managing to escape from holding so easily.

There’s quite a bit of stumbling going on. Tony makes a beeline for the minibar then collapses in the loveseat; Bruce is heading for the showers and a change of clothes; Bruce and Natasha are already gone to wherever they go to relax. Sam claps Steve on the shoulder and heads to his room for some shut-eye; it’s dark already, whatever the time is, and Thor is brooding, as he so often is after fighting a fellow Asgardian. Not as much as he would after Loki, but Amora hits close to home, too.

Steve, on the other hand, is still hyped up on adrenaline. It’s always a rough transition between the battlefield, where he’s important, where he calls the shots and follows through right alongside the others, and the aftermath. When battles are more physically taxing than this one, he’d be in the infirmary; less, he’d be in the gym, working off his excess energy.

Instead, he’s on that line between exhausted and slightly manic. He needs to do _something_.

He drops his shield and picks up a sketchbook and a remote. He might as well keep working on the List of Things to Catch Up On.

A quick query and JARVIS places an order for Thai food—another thing to cross off after this—and brings up the next show on his list: Star Trek.

“Would you like it in chronological order of release or would you prefer a selection of the “best” episodes, Captain?”

Steve frowns. “How many episodes are there?” He’d made the mistake of asking for all of _I Love Lucy_ , and while they were funny, there were _a hundred and eighty-some._

“Including every live-action Star Trek series, there are seven hundred and eighty-eight episodes and thirteen feature films. Presuming you mean The Original Series, there are seventy-nine episodes and six feature films.”

He chokes on nothing. Seven hundred and eighty-eight?? How the hell is he supposed to get through all of those? “I… I think I’ll go for the selection, JARVIS.”

“Very good, Captain.”

The lights dim and Steve pulls his sketchbook close, leaning forward as the opening voiceover rings through the room.

_“Space: the final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise. Its five-year mission: to explore strange new worlds. To seek out new life and new civilizations. To boldly go where no man has gone before.”_

Well, there are two new references he gets already.

\--

He’d intended to be sketching, but instead he’s taking notes. He’s filled three pages, now, with just… questions, some of which JARVIS has been kind enough to explain between episodes, about when they came out, how revolutionary it was at the time in so many ways, how Lucille Ball— _that_ Lucille Ball?—was such a driving force. The first interracial kiss, something Steve barely even notices now, though Barton complains about the lack thereof in his holiday romcoms.

It’s a utopia, really, with space travel and fantastic planets and a bold, steadfast leader.

He bets Bucky would love it. This is exactly what his friend always saw when he looked at Howard, Steve thinks; he saw not what the future would be, Steve can attest to that, but what it _could_ be, with all of the hope and none of the naiveté of a child.

Steve likes it well enough, he supposes, though a few moments hit a little too close to home to be honest. _The Balance of Terror_ , _Space Seed_. He remembers what the Germans were up to, and what he’s sure HYDRA is up to, even now.

What Doctor Erskine was up to.

He shifts uncomfortably.

The Thai food arrived somewhere during the fifth episode in JARVIS’ recommendations, something with a bunch of adorable furry creatures, and then he’s coughing his lungs up from the spice. It feels like he’s breathing fire, and Tony’s just snickering at his pain on the couch, the jerk; he knows his _thing_ with spicy foods.

“Apologies, Captain, but you _did_ tell me to order Sir’s usual.” It’s hard to remember sometimes that JARVIS is an AI, and not a living, breathing human. It’s harder when he emotes so clearly as he does now, apology clear in his tone as much as the words he speaks.

Steve waves JARVIS off, unable to reply for the moment as he stumbles over to the kitchen for water.

A deep gulp, two, and he shakes his head wordlessly at JARVIS’ recommendation that he try milk or yoghurt. “No, that’s—I’m alright.”

“If you say so, Captain.”

He’s gotten better at it, but it’s painful. Not the spice, though that certainly is an element of it, but seeing all of these wonderful things and knowing Bucky is out there, struggling. _’Til the end of the line_ didn’t seem to mean much, in the end. At least he knows he’s still alive, he just wishes—

He wishes a lot of things.

Steve goes back and watches the rest of the selection, or tries to. He crashes just a few episodes later, when a tsunami of soft, energetic fluffballs were enveloping the Enterprise.

\--

“JARVIS, can you find someone for me?”

“Certainly, Captain.”


	9. Interlude: The Subway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If one thing is constant in New York City over the last century, it's the Subway.

The one place that Steve expected to have changed, above all, was the subway.

He’d been in the quinjet more times than he could count, a sleek plane more oil slick than whirring propellers. He’d heard more than seen muscle cars blaring down the streets at night, and from stories above, through the leaves and vines draped across his windows. More than once, he’s been a pedestrian dodging bicycles, weaving through the discontented streaks of yellow honking down the avenue.

Most of the time if he indicates he wants to go somewhere farther than the next neighborhood, there’s already a car waiting for him when he exits the building, bright black or red or gold with heated leather seats, smooth wood finishes, and bodies that purr around him like a self-satisfied cat in the sun. Perks of having a nigh-omniscient AI as the building manager, he supposes.

It’s all…very different, but he’s gotten used to it.

He’s fairly sure JARVIS knows what he’s doing this time, which is why there isn’t a car outside. Instead, Steve hangs a right towards the nearest station and descends the stairs, the grime growing as he does, darkening the familiar tile.

Back Before, Steve hadn’t ventured out of Brooklyn much. There was no need to, really; everyone he knew was in his neighborhood, everything he needed. Manhattan wasn’t any better and was much less familiar to him than the streets of his childhood, full up with the drips on Wall Street and the remnants of trauma from the depression like everywhere else, only just starting to really improve when Erskine had pulled him.

From what he remembers, though, it looks like nothing has really changed, here.

The method of payment has changed, he thinks as he taps his StarkPhone against the scanner, but the tiles, the benches, everything else seems very familiar. He takes a seat as he watches a woman selling churros roll her cart down the platform and waits for the next train.

It’s not long, only a few minutes. He lets the people in the car spill out, waiting a moment, two, before boarding and taking a seat. The rumble of the subway car hides the jittering of his leg, his hands as he stares intently down at them.

The car fills up as it heads farther out, the standing room quickly becoming packed. Just as they’re crossing the bridge, Steve catches the eye of a pregnant woman and gestures her over, moving to stand but halting when he sees someone a little closer call out and relinquishing their seat. He settles back down, letting the rhythmic clanking and gentle flashing of tunnel lights lull him into a doze.

The car is half empty again by the time he hears his stop called out over the speakers, muffled and barely coherent. Steve straightens and stands, gently maneuvering his way to the doors and hopping automatically over the sizeable gap between the train and the platform.

Few people linger in the station; there’s a man dozing on the bench, a granny cart packed to the gills next to him. A security guard sits inside the square station on the outside of the gate, his head leaning against his palm, scrolling through his phone idly. A young couple is giggling beside a pillar, tentatively leaning closer with every breath before pulling away until one woman’s hand reaches out and grasps the other’s, lacing their fingers together, blushing. Steve smiles at the sight and continues on his way.

He takes the stairs down to street level two at a time, as is his wont, exiting into the middle barrier of an intersection, the tracks above him casting shadows on the brick storefronts in the early evening.

The air is warm and golden, and Steve takes in the neighborhood. He recognizes this storefront, but that one has been updated. The layout of the streets is nearly identical, though, and he follows the familiar turns automatically, his feet knowing this path despite the years, decades since he’d last walked it. He’d been much smaller, then.

It feels far too soon, but Steve slows his stride, reluctantly drifting to a stop in front of one of many, many apartment buildings in the neighborhood. The colors are different, he thinks, though still chipping along the railing and windowframes. The doors, a different material altogether, and weathered; he wonders how many times they’ve been replaced.

Steve slowly climbs the outdoor steps leading to the second floor, torn between rushing up to his destination and fleeing, giving up the ghost and retreating to the Tower, tail between his legs.

He doesn’t. Instead, Steve lifts his hand, heavier than he can ever remember it being, heavy as a swear on his mother’s grave, and raps on the second door from the right, waiting anxiously.

The door swings open and a pair of dark eyes meets his own, shock and the icy pinprick of terror running through them. The man before him tightens his grip on the door, closing it slightly, tensed.

“Hey, Buck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! There's an actual plot! I truly cannot help myself!


End file.
